


get one over on you

by loganes



Series: the space between blue lines [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Colorado Avalanche, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loganes/pseuds/loganes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>God, he wants to score, rub it in McNamara’s face when he does, which is not how he’s ever responded to a teammate before in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	get one over on you

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Ellie for the beta.

Okay, so Dylan can admit that McNamara isn’t actually the worst roommate for him to end up with, even if it’s a little disconcerting how similar they are in routine, both habitually organized and in agreement that if hockey’s on television they’re going to watch it. McNamara even acquiesces to turning the lights out when Dylan’s ready, except on nights he goes out, in which case Dylan can go to bed whenever he pleases. While those nights still make up the majority—sorry, Coach—he’s quiet enough when he gets in that Dylan’s only been woken up once, and it was to McNamara stubbing his toe. They’re not friends, not even close, but playing for a couple of weeks now seems to have mellowed out McNamara’s attitude some, so that it’s comfortably civil when they’re in the same space.

For Dylan, it’s almost perfect: he rarely meshes well enough with other guys in the roommate stage, because Dylan’s particular, doesn’t like to stumble over someone else’s shit, would rather review game tape or Skype his brother than make conversation in the room. McNamara goes about his business without disturbing Dylan, is surprisingly calm given what Dylan would’ve expected from watching him play.

(That first away game in St. Louis, Dylan was so shocked by the civility that he called McNamara out on it, said, “I thought you’d be obnoxious as hell,” and then stood in the doorway to the bathroom, mortified with himself, because he honestly didn’t want to make things worse for himself.

McNamara had blinked awkwardly, shirt half folded in his hands, and then shrugged in a way that screamed discomfort.

“Uh, nevermind,” Dylan said hastily, feeling about the way McNamara looked. “Do you want to, uh, watch the Dallas game?” he said then, because he really didn’t know when to stop. 

It took a second, but then McNamara tossed his shirt onto his bag, picked up the remote from their shared night-table, and sprawled across the bed with a neutral expression. “Sure,” he said.

Dylan flicked off the bathroom light, suddenly not really sure what to do with his hands, in part because McNamara’s shirt had ridden up and that sliver of skin above his sweatpants made his heart pick up—nothing out of the ordinary, Dylan wasn’t _blind_ , okay, he just wasn’t used to having to control this shit in close quarters. Years of hockey had trained his eyes, only the sample size had been a little different. Less blond-haired, blue-eyed intensity, more zit-filled teenage immaturity.

McNamara raised his eyebrows. “You gonna stand in the doorway all night?”

Exhaling sharply, Dylan shook his head. 

They ended up watching the game through its close, late enough that Dylan almost wanted to apologize for suggesting it.)

Watching the late games, that becomes a routine, something to pass the time that other people (normal people, people who like each other) would spend actually speaking to each other.

Eventually even that isn't filled with silence, little comments here and there about someone's play or a nasty hit, and Dylan doesn’t want to ask, knows he _can’t_ , but he’s dying to know why McNamara’s finally decided he can stand Dylan’s presence. It still grates on him that everything’s been up to McNamara’s discretion, out of his control, because there’s nothing Dylan hates more than letting someone else make decisions that affect his life, but. Whatever. The truce is no longer silent, and even if it’s all up to McNamara, at least Dylan’s aware that it’s more about McNamara than it is about him.

 

*

 

What happens in the room apparently stays in the room, though, because halfway through a game in Dallas, McNamara is shouting at him on the bench, in his face like he’s fucking entitled to be there, and Dylan’s honestly this close to throwing a punch.

“You fucking— what was that, some keep away game you’re trying to play against Cochran? Fucking pass to me and we’d have about a hundred less turnovers than we do right now,” McNamara snarls. 

Dylan shoves him, hard enough that he careens sideways into Proulx, who looks like he’d rather be literally anywhere but here. “Yeah, maybe if you were _fucking_ open—” 

“I’ve been open all night, Pearson." 

“Taking stupid fucking penalties, more like,” Dylan spits back, ready to talk about that ridiculous trip on Drechsel ten minutes ago. He’s barely paying attention to what’s happening on the ice, could be their line up any second, and then Nielsen’s tugging on the back of his jersey, yanking him away.

“You guys need to stop,” Nielsen says sharply.

Dylan takes a moment to glance around the bench; most guys are focused on the game, yeah, but also carefully avoiding glancing over to where Dylan and McNamara are wedged in the corner, and Dylan’s not actually this much of an asshole, doesn’t want to be known as one, but McNamara sure as hell succeeds in bringing it out in him. And, okay, he’s not the only rookie on this team, but he is the one who’s supposed to be the face of the Avs franchise for years to come, so…maybe Nielsen’s got a point.

“Tell that to him,” Dylan sneers anyway, physically incapable of dropping an argument before he’s had the last word. He fumbles for a second with his water bottle, tugging it open furiously with his teeth, and manages a quick swig before he and McNamara and Turner have to be back on the ice. 

Raising his eyes to the jumbotron, Dylan breathes in through his nose, slow, not sure whether he needs to get himself calm or if the fire under his skin might do him some good, since he hasn’t put up a point yet, not for lack of trying. God, he wants to score, rub it in McNamara’s face when he does, which is not how he’s ever responded to a teammate before in his life—  Dylan’s a team player, gotten better at sharing the puck, had to when he was on the Knights with linemates who wanted the goals just as badly as he did. Friendly competition’s one thing, but none of this is friendly, none of it particularly fun.

He drops his head back down, drops his stick to the ice as they line up for the face-off, and looks over at McNamara.

McNamara’s looking back, a curious expression on his face, and Dylan presses his lips together to keep himself from saying anything else, shaking his head to clear it. McNamara has the best face off percentage on the team, so all Dylan can hope for is that McNamara can suck it up and get him the puck if he wins this one.

He does, and it’s on Dylan’s tape in a heartbeat, perfect no-look pass from the dot that might've left Dylan a little breathless if he wasn’t preoccupied. McNamara’s voice rings in his head, _fucking pass to me_ , and Dylan does not want to at all, but Cochran is right in his lane and Turner’s trying to remain onsides, so McNamara is his only option.

Shit, Dylan thinks, and then backhands the puck to McNamara, who dekes it around Wright with a bit of fancy footwork and fires off a wrister. Borovsky knocks it away easily, but then McNamara’s in front of the net for the screen and Dylan’s there, ready for the rebound, doesn’t even let the puck settle on his tape before shooting it into the space between Borovsky’s pads and the ice.

Turner crashes into him after the horn sounds, arm around his neck, and McNamara follows, looking way too smug for a guy who didn’t actually score on his own shot.

“Told you,” McNamara says hoarsely in his ear, all arrogance. As if that proves anything, considering Dylan’s the one with the goal, but Dylan lets it slide for once and keeps his mouth shut as they skate over to the bench.

The rest of the game feels like a personal battle with McNamara every time they’re on the ice, but for whatever reason it works, the two of them and Turner putting up more points than the other three lines combined. Dallas loses miserably, final score 7-1, and while Dallas has some of the worst defense in the league the media’s still all over the win, like it’s sole evidence that the Avs are making a comeback, are contenders again. It’s ridiculous in its own right, since they won a Cup three years ago, which is more than Dylan can say for a lot of teams in the NHL with just as talented players.

Dylan’s got half of his pads off when the media comes around, shirtless and sweaty and he’s sure that his hair’s disgusting, not that anyone who’s got a microphone shoved in his face cares about his appearance. He gamely pastes a smile on, has no reason to be mad about a three-point night except that McNamara ended up with two goals and two assists, which was one more goal than Dylan had.

“You and Ryan McNamara have been playing on the same line since the start of the season, but you haven’t yet had a game like tonight. Where’s that success coming from?”

Dylan presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, split second of silence while he figures out what to say. “Oh, you know. We’re always on each other’s backs, trying to make each other better. Guess it finally paid off.” It’s not even quite a lie, and he’s learned it’s best to give the media these kind of half-truths, to keep himself honest and the narrative straight, since he and McNamara are buddies according to every paper and blog in Denver.

“So the point-production, it’s not only about making yourself look good but your teammates? That’s a pretty unselfish way of playing,” one reporter says, not really a question but still something Dylan has to answer.

“If my team’s playing well, then we’re winning, and that’s the most important thing to me,” Dylan says, glancing over to where McNamara’s equally surrounded, wishing like hell he’d escaped to shower before this. “On any team, you always want to be the one creating opportunities, getting the puck to the net, and I—we—try to do that any way we can. I guess you could say we see the game pretty similarly, so. Clearly it’s translating into goals, which is what we want.” 

“You’re about a month into the season right now, with the third-best record in the league. Is there pressure to keep performing the same way after the last few seasons?”

Yes, Dylan wants to say, there’s a lot of fucking pressure, thanks for asking. He runs a hand through his hair, can feel it sticking unpleasantly to his neck. “Yeah, I mean, obviously we want to keep the momentum going, keep getting the W’s. A lot of that’s because of Jordy and our defense too, they’ve been solid every game. I think, uh, I think we’re just trying to focus on one game at a time, not trying to look too far ahead. There’s a lot of season left,” Dylan jokes, though to his ears it comes out flat.

Another seven minutes of questions and then he’s free, finally, exhausted and ready to fall into bed after he finishes showering. When he gets back to the hotel room McNamara’s already there, dressed like he’s about to go out, and Dylan can’t think of anything he wants to do less but it’s not like he’s going to stop McNamara from ruining his liver and his diet plan. He grunts a hello and shakes his head, catches the smell of McNamara’s cologne as he walks by him to his bed, and he rubs a hand roughly over his right eye. “You gonna be out late,” he says, doesn’t really care but kind of wants to give McNamara shit anyway.

“Probably,” McNamara says, sliding his wallet into his back pocket. “Don’t wait up, sweetheart,” he adds, rude as ever, and then he’s out the door, shutting it none too quietly behind him. Okay, then. Dylan flips the door off.

 

*

 

Dylan’s been asleep for about an hour when he blinks awake, confused for a second as to why until he recognizes the buzzing of his phone on the night table, screen too-bright in the dark room when he reaches for it.

He has to squint to see who’s calling, wants to throw his phone when he does, because of course it’s fucking McNamara, and if Dylan was a worse person he’d turn his phone off and leave McNamara, who’s probably drunk, to fend for himself.

Instead he slides his thumb across the screen to answer, a quiet “’Lo,” that McNamara probably can’t even hear if he’s in some Dallas bar.

But there aren’t any raucous bar sounds in the background, just McNamara’s voice, drunk and slurring a little. “Pearson,” he says. “I uh. Can’t remember our room number, ‘m in the lobby, can you…”

Dylan waits, because he’s definitely not getting out of bed unless he’s explicitly told to.

“…fuck,” McNamara says then, and then there’s a thump, like he dropped his phone. Dylan hopes to god there’s no one in the lobby witnessing this, and _Jesus_ , he is going to have to get out of bed.

He hangs up, texts McNamara _I’m coming down_ , and it takes a herculean effort but he manages to force himself upright, dragging his feet a little once he’s in the hallway, keycard safely in the pocket of his basketball shorts. He’s still shirtless, couldn’t be bothered to throw anything on at one in the fucking morning, so whoever’s down there is getting a show.

The elevator’s slow as hell but he doesn’t have the energy to take the stairs and they’re on the sixth floor anyway. He’s too groggy to even be that annoyed, more cold than anything, arms crossed as he stares down the elevator buttons. When the doors finally open he sees McNamara immediately, slumped against one of the lobby couches. There isn’t anyone at the front desk, thank god, and Dylan doesn’t hesitate before grabbing one of McNamara’s arms to pull him upright. 

“You fucking owe me,” he mutters, watching the way McNamara’s eyelashes are doing this funny fluttering thing, way too pretty for his own good.

“Hey,” McNamara says suddenly, like he’s just noticed Dylan’s there, and Dylan rolls his eyes, gets his shoulders under McNamara’s arm because he’s honestly not sure the guy can make it to the elevator on his own. They walk together, slow, most of McNamara’s weight on Dylan, and it’s a good thing they’re the same height, almost the same build, or they wouldn’t be getting anywhere fast.

McNamara is surprisingly quiet, loose where he’s leaned against Dylan, and for a second Dylan wishes it was like this all the time, McNamara compliant and happy to follow Dylan’s lead, but it’s fleeting, because there’s an unhappy twist to McNamara’s mouth that Dylan wants to ask about, makes him feel like he’s missing something important.

He reaches up with his right hand to hold McNamara’s wrist where it’s slung over his shoulder, keep him steady while they exit the elevator and head to the room. McNamara only stumbles once and actually apologizes for it, so at least there’s that, and eventually they make it inside, Dylan gently pushing McNamara in first. 

Since he’s feeling marginally more awake and kind of mollified by McNamara’s drunkess he decides to fill up a glass of water while McNamara changes, brings it out and sets it on the table between their beds. Never let it be said that Dylan can’t be considerate, okay, though he actually hopes McNamara doesn’t remember any of this in the morning, can’t tell exactly how drunk he is to know. 

“You gonna be good?” he says after a couple of minutes, McNamara standing at the edge of his bed like he’s not sure where to go.

McNamara looks up at him, eyes glassy from the alcohol, and nods slowly. “Go to bed, Pearson,” he says, still slurred but not unkind.

Dylan is the first to look away, and he leaves the bathroom light on so McNamara’s not left in the dark, crawls back into bed. It takes him a long time to fall back asleep.

 

*

 

McNamara wakes Dylan up again, this time with a hand on his arm, shaking him gently. Dylan cracks an eye open, because McNamara has literally never deigned to touch Dylan voluntarily, especially at ass o'clock in the morning, and he’s also not happy about it. “What,” he croaks, turning his face into his pillow, because he’s almost one hundred percent sure he doesn’t need to be up yet.

“I’m going to grab breakfast,” McNamara murmurs, tone to his voice that Dylan doesn’t recognize. “Just wanted to see if you wanted me to bring back anything.”

Dylan buries his head further, groaning a little, and then emerges reluctantly. McNamara’s sitting on the edge of his bed, looking ridiculously awake for someone whose drunk-ass had dragged Dylan out of bed not six hours earlier. Christ. He thinks about it, figures McNamara’s actually going somewhere legit for breakfast if he’s asking, and he’s really not in the mood for shitty hotel continental breakfast anyway, so. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, feeling a little self-conscious for some reason, eyes still sleep-heavy. “Just, like, get me whatever you’re having.”

“Will do,” McNamara answers. He gets up, leaves, and Dylan’s thankfully alone again, thinks he can get back to sleep if he tries hard enough, though his mind is traitorously alert, trying to assess what the hell McNamara’s doing. He’s never offered to hand Dylan a sock, let alone get him breakfast, but whatever, he’ll take it for the apology it probably is, the one exception to their rule.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://larraza.tumblr.com).


End file.
